Stolen Prey

By Lindsay Mawson

Since taking control of his once unstable life, things are finally looking up for Detective Constable Ethan Callaway, especially with a promotion on the horizon. When he meets a beautiful and modest news reporter, sparks fly between them.

The more Ethan gets to know her, the more intrigued he grows, but he quickly realizes that a very dangerous threat looms in her life. Ethan knows that he must do what he can to protect her, but soon finds himself the target of a common enemy.

Thrust into a game of cat-and-mouse, Ethan once more finds himself rapidly losing control of everything he knows, ultimately fighting for not only his own life, but for the lives of those he loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lindsay Mawson
• Release date: Jan 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458183156

Lindsay Mawson

Lindsay Mawson grew up in Southwestern Ontario, spending much of her time delving into the creative. Many of her teenage and young-adult years were spent writing fiction. When she was not doing that, you could find her sketching lifelike portraits of celebrities, family, pets, including those by commission. Visit Graphite Portraits or more info.Lindsay is married with two children living on a hobby farm in SW Ontario. Among two dogs and two cats, their family consists of a number of chickens and a few rabbits. She is the author of three novels and many short stories, which can be found on www.lmawson.com and on her blog.

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STOLEN

PREY

A NOVEL

LINDSAY MAWSON

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

AUTHOR OF:

Stolen Prey

The Lothgoliar

Exposing Dallas

Dissecting Dallas (Coming Soon)

Official Author Website: www.lmawson.com

ISBN-13: 978-0-557-44912-5

Copyright © 2010 by Lindsay Mawson

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

Image © Lindsay Mawson

For my husband and kids.

PROLOGUE

May 7, 1692

My dearest beloved,

It has been two months without the sight, smell, sound, or touch of your being. Sometimes I wonder if you are still alive! I have heard news from your mother that, as one would be, you are most delighted in your new position as lady-in-waiting to Queen Mary. It would be, however, my greatest joy if you were to return a letter to me. I long to read what adventures and wonderful stories you’ve to share with me. I yearn to see you and in little more than a month, I assure you, I will have acquired the funds to purchase another horse and carriage, as my paintings have been in high demand of late. If it is your wish, we can marry when I arrive, with or without a grand ceremony. I love you, and I would do all against God’s plan to make you happy. I miss you.

Love,

Your eagerly awaiting fiancé Leonard

June 1, 1692

My dearest,

Although your brief response provided me sums of joy, I have heard strange news that cannot be ignored. I overheard your cousin—Lady Harris—informing a friend that you are now courting Lord Bartholomew of Dosbury. At once, I believed this information to be untrue, as your past letters spoke of how dearly you wished to see me. Of course, it would make my evenings less restless if you were to correct me on this matter. I am one painting short of visiting you, my love. Adieu.

Leonard

June 25, 1692

My Dearest Victoria,

In five days’ time, following this letter, I will be making my way to London. I long to feel the softness of your delicate skin, hear the sound of your heavenly voice. After all, it has been far too long since we last set eyes on one another. I look forward to seeing you, my love.

I miss you.

Your Leonard

July 14, 1692

Victoria,

It is still a shock to me that you have married the Lord of Dosbury. Yet, more shocked you seemed that I had come to visit you. Had you not received my letters? You’ve shattered my already fragile heart, Victoria.

Leonard

August 5, 1692

Dear Leonard,

You will find that I have returned your letters to me. My husband nearly caught me reading your latest. I am truly sorry for telling my betrothed that you were a childhood friend, however you can understand why I did so. Returning these letters will close our relationship, as is my greatest hope, for it would be improper of me to continue such communication with you.

Good luck on future endeavours,

Victoria

August 21, 1692

Victoria,

This is the last letter you will ever receive from me, as tonight I will no longer exist as the Leonard you once loved. By the time you have received this, I will have taken my life.

I leave to you all my possessions, including my family’s estate.

I will love you until the end of time.

Leonard

1

Everything’s Eventual

ETHAN STARED a few moments longer at the fragile parchment, a letter produced by the shaky hand of a suicidal seventeenth-century man. Quieted by the weight of the author’s misery, Ethan folded the letter back along its crease with the care of one attempting to fold a brittle leaf without cracking it. He had not meant to let his guard down in this place because he was here to do a job, but after stumbling upon these fascinating relics, his attention had become caught in the webbing of calligraphic lines and swirls. For a few moments, the letters had dragged him back in time, out of the chaos of today’s fast-paced world; a time without automobiles, mobile phones, television; a time when one might consider fast food a rabbit or a deer, not the burger joint down the block.

Ethan slid Leonard’s final goodbye into the discoloured manila envelope that contained the enclosed letters he had found.

Hey.

Ethan wheeled around, his sudden movement thrusting a cloud of dust into the air where it billowed about his shoes.

Martin plodded into the dark bedroom, his heavy footfalls echoing beneath each squeaky floorboard. The floor joists groaned under his weight. Martin sneezed into his sleeve as disturbed sediment drifted up his nostrils. What are you doing there? he asked.

Ethan indicated the envelope in his hand. Just found some old letters, nothing relevant.

Well, let’s remember this is a potential crime scene, not a museum, Martin replied. I’d like to get home before tea if that’s all right with you. He trudged toward the tall window, nearly opaque from years of built-up grime, in an attempt to glimpse the rural English surroundings, where the air smelled appreciably fresher than that of their current setting.

Right, Ethan said, sorry. Let’s get back to work. He knelt and placed the bundle of letters back into the bottom drawer of the Victorian dresser. He stood, dusted his knees, and turned his focus back to the tainted bathroom.

So, what have we got? Martin asked. He held his arm out before him.

Ethan entered the white-tiled room, which was lit by a lithium battery LED flood lamp. The light, which had been placed in the far corner of the room, nearly fifteen feet away from the clawfoot tub, was much brighter than his flashlight and allowed him to study the scene in more detail than he could have otherwise.

Not that he wanted to see these details. Some were best kept in the dark.

Well, I’ve surmised that she slit her wrists, Ethan said, reluctant to reveal any indication of anxiety. He lifted his gaze from the body lying in the bathtub to the man beside him, searching for a welcome sign of approval.

Rather than showing support of Ethan’s statement, fleeting revolt crossed his boss’s face. Martin cleared his throat, an ineffective attempt to conceal his own unease. So, uh, what information can you give me about this Miss Pennington, then? From what you’ve dug up so far.

Ethan stepped toward the bathtub. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end in their follicles as his limbs became catch basins for the flood of hot adrenaline in his chest. This was the first time in five years that a body had tweaked his nerves in such a way.

Well—hey, watch here. Ethan snapped his fingers to bring Martin’s attention back to the body. The sooner they could breathe fresh air, the better. The body is so badly decomposed that there’s really no way to determine the cause of death, or that it really is Pennington, until the medical-examiner takes a closer look. I can guess, though, that it is a possible suicide because of the straight razor there in the soap dish, which appears to have dried blood residue on it.

Martin nodded, so Ethan continued.

The court-process clerk found what he believed to be a brief suicide note on the front hall table, which is why he bothered looking around the house in the first place to find her. I don’t think he knew if the note had been written today or twenty years ago, but it wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular. The neighbours believed she lived alone.

What did the note say?

"To whoever, I’m done."

That’s it?

Yes. But she wrote it large enough to be conspicuous.

Martin nodded and breathed into his cupped hand. Doesn’t look suspicious, then? he asked.

Ethan peered back at the corpse. I don’t expect so, but again, the coroner will have the say.

How do you know it’s a woman?

Ethan nodded toward the bedroom. I don’t know for sure until DNA or dental records come back, but the house is in a woman’s name, and like I said, she allegedly lived alone. The fact that only one bedroom is occupied can testify to that. The others are completely empty. Not even a picture on the wall. Damned lonely existence, if you ask me.

Martin nodded, a glimmer of a smile forming on his face. Ethan ignored it. He could not allow his hopes to rise, not just yet.

So, Martin muttered, why hasn’t anyone found her until now?

Well, Ethan said, the house has been passed on through her family for the last three hundred years, so she owed the banks nothing. She didn’t own a car, didn’t have a credit card. The body, national insurance, her bank account, and the previous owner’s will seem to be the only proof of her ever having existed, aside from the reason we’re here in the first place.

Which is?

She must have been a recluse because according to the elderly neighbours who live across the road, they never saw anyone enter or leave the property aside from the grocery delivery truck now and again. The neighbours knew nothing about her and figured she’d moved away over a year ago. I don’t think they’ll sleep tonight now that they know what happened. If not for that court-process clerk coming out to subpoena her for overdue taxes, who knows how much longer she might have lain here?

Martin crossed his arms over his hefty chest and slid away from the doorframe to approach the tub. He leaned over it and scowled. How long has the poor lass been here, do you think?

Ethan gazed at the decayed body, of which much of the skeleton was visible (topped with long mouse-brown hair, not all of which was attached to the corpse’s remaining scalp), until it drifted out of focus. I’d say about a year—year and a half. She made partial payments on her taxes regularly until the last six quarterly instalments… That gives you an idea, doesn’t it?

Bloody hell, Martin said with a sigh. Good. Well, that was fun. Let’s get the hell out of here so the M.E. can get to work.

When they exited the washroom, Ethan glanced at the dresser drawer again. He wondered how long those letters would remain there, waiting to be recovered. How many more years would they endure to share their sad story? A tiny, illogical part of him hoped that he was wrong about Pennington’s cause of death. Imagining that two suicides had taken place in the same home was chilling.

He snatched his leather coat from the dusty bed and shook it with the grim awareness that centuries-old skin cells were likely a primary component of the air he was breathing. The thought was enough to propel him through the dark doorway and into the upstairs hall, where Martin was already waiting for him. One last time, Ethan peeked at the drawer. Perhaps he could sneak the letters out, hide them in his coat and take them to a—

So, what were those letters you were holding when I came in? Martin asked, reading the obsession on Ethan’s face.

Ethan forced a shrug, as if this mere action had the potential to put the whole day behind him. Just some old tragic love letters. It’s nothing.

If he divulged any further, his boss might mistake Ethan’s conclusions about Pennington’s suicide as being an idea lifted from that tarnished envelope. This could lead to a change in Martin’s impression of his ability, which would not bode well for his career. So, he kept silent and pressed on.

The wide oak staircase showed no signs of decay despite having stood for hundreds of years. Ethan took extra care not to miss a step in the hazy darkness. The little daylight that effectively permeated the house illuminated the trillions of dust particles that encircled him. Ethan imagined that back in its glory days, the house must have been beautiful in the afternoon light.

He looked up at the massive chandelier. Fastened to it were dozens of dirty teardrop-shaped crystals that reflected the last of the day’s light. Candlesticks encircled the fixture. It must have been quite an effort to light them each night. Upon checking with the electric company earlier, he discovered that the owner of this mansion had never had electricity in her name. It had remained in her deceased mother’s name until two years ago, when it was cut off for non-payment. Had Pennington gone six months to a year without electricity? There was no doubt in Ethan’s mind that what wiring was here would be far outdated and need replacing. He wondered what such a job would cost.

Ethan, what—

He flinched, missed a step, and grabbed for the railing but was too slow. His feet flew out from beneath him. A moment of weightlessness preceded him landing painfully with two stair corners in his back—one just above his butt and one in between the discs in the center of his spine—and one in his neck at his shoulders. His head followed in a collision course with the stair above those. The impact delivered a flicker of darkness, and then white dots whizzed across his vision as he slid down the staircase. A large hand snatched him by the coat collar and heaved in the opposite direction of gravity. Ethan hastily found a step and sat, heart thundering behind his ribcage, waiting for the house to right itself.

Bloody hell, Callaway, Martin exclaimed. What am I going to do with you? One minute you’re proving your merit and the next you’re tumbling down the steps like a toddler!

Sorry, I was distracted, Ethan wheezed. You surprised me.

After a slight pause, Martin bellowed a hearty laugh, one that made Ethan smile at his own stupidity, though it quickly morphed into a grimace of pain.

You think you’re a Slinky now, do you? Martin asked.

Ethan laughed and shook his aching head. Just thought the stairs needed a good polish.

Martin doubled over with laughter. You’re something, Ethan. Wait ‘til they hear about this back at the station. You’ve finally got yourself a nickname.

Exhaling, Ethan climbed to his feet. "You have them calling me Slinky and I’ll top myself. On the subject of work, do you think I’ll get the promotion?"

Martin peered down at Ethan and let his smile fade. "After that display? Oh, I’m just playing. Let’s see what the medical report shows. If you’ve solved this almost single-handedly in one day and you’ve aced the exam, you’ve got yourself the position."

"YEAH! I WAS fired! What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

Ethan stared up at Nick and felt a twinge of guilt in the pit of his stomach. Though it was no fault of his that his best friend had lost his job at the magazine, Ethan felt responsible for Nick’s wellbeing. As tight as brothers, they had always been there for each other when they needed it, and even when they thought they did not.

Ethan answered, That’s bollocks, because that was the response Nick was expecting, but his outrage was forced. Nick was indeed a great journalist, and the magazine would be worse off for losing him, but rarely did something happen to Nick that came as a shock to Ethan—or anyone that knew him, for that matter. "Are you sure you’re sacked? Did they say, Nicholas Wagner, you’re fired?"

Nick rolled his eyes. They left little room for doubt, trust me… He hoisted himself up onto the hideous indigo kitchen countertop. He gazed down at the aged linoleum flooring for some time before looking up. The glint in his eyes and the smirk that now conquered his face were enough to direct Ethan into a chair at the table.

This was going to be good.

It wasn’t like you’d think, Nick continued. "This isn’t a Hollywood film, you know. The fucking CEO of the magazine—Burt Higgins—and two security guards came up to my desk and asked me to accompany them. It’s like they felt they had to escort me out of the building in case I went on a shooting rampage or something."

Ethan studied the lines in his palms, not wanting to acknowledge the pathetic look that Nick was providing him; he knew it too well. Feel sorry for me. Be curious. Join me in vengeance. I’m just a sad loser. Help me. I did nothing wrong. The world is out to get me. It was all those things rolled into one. He was master of his expressions, could have been an actor.

Ethan refused to fall for the bait this time. "So, why? he asked. What was their reason for sacking you?"

Nick released a short maniacal laugh and brushed both hands through his short dirty-blond hair. I don’t know. Couldn’t be my writing, could it? Did I not just write the best damned article on our failing monarchy? We got hammered with positive reviews.

Yeah, mate, it was brilliant, Ethan replied, also familiar with Nick’s avoidance tactics. He could feel in his spine that on this occasion, his friend was not just another victim of bad luck. Nick had always aided in his own misfortunes. He seemed to have an affinity for chaos. So, what’s the real reason you were fired? You’re about as transparent as that bottle in your hand. I don’t know why you even bother to lie to me at this point in our lives.

Nick shook his head and glanced down at the green Heineken bottle with that guilty smirk. He knew he had been caught, and judging by his expression, he had done something epic on the "WSS—the Wagner Scale of Stupid". Though Nick was an intelligent man, he seemed to possess about as much common sense as a dinner plate. The man never ceased to astonish Ethan.

Impatient for an answer and already anxious enough about his own career, Ethan struggled to keep his voice from rising. What did you do?

Nick sighed. "Well, there might have been a teensy little incident."

So, what is it? Teensy, yet you’re sacked. Spill, Ethan demanded. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, aiming to brace himself for what was to come. "It’s something really daft, isn’t it? I mean you must have done something bad enough to justify their escorting you out of the building."

You could say that, Nick said. He paused. All right, you know how I’ve been talking about this fit bird that works in human resources?

Tamara. How could Ethan forget? Nick never shut up about her. Day and night, their conversations always seemed to head toward Tamara; how beautiful she was; how intelligent she was; how drop-dead-sexy she was. Yet, Ethan had never clapped eyes on her. He sometimes wondered if the woman was a mere fabrication of his friend’s imagination.

Nick nodded. Yeah, Tamara. Well… she and I… well… we—

Spit it out!

We copped off in the storage room this morning.

Ethan felt his jaw drop and a cry of shock escape his throat.

Nick peered up at the yellowed popcorn ceiling with a sly grin. And I swear to you that that was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life. There’s just something about knowing that you could be caught at any moment… It just lights all your senses on fire!

Ethan let out an incredulous laugh, rose from his chair, and rubbed his hands over his face. I can’t… I don’t believe you. How’d they find out?

Nick’s smile faded. That little weasel, Brent Duncan. Walked in just as we were buttoning up. We’d locked the door and all, but he must have found a janitor with a key. No good son of a bitch.

"Was she sacked? Tamara?"

Of course not; she’s the CEO’s daughter.

Ethan’s hand slipped off the counter and he lost his balance. "What? You’ve never mentioned that small detail, have you? Ethan laughed again but with a lack of humour. How dumb could one person be? You got a leg-over with the boss’s daughter at work, were caught, and then you actually expected to keep your job? Have you lost your fucking mind? What did you think was going to happen? You’re absolutely unbelievable!" Ethan sat down and freed a whooshing sigh.

Nick shook his head. Don’t remind me.

"It never occurred to either of you to simply wait eight hours? Or until your break?"

Easy enough for you to say, Nick retorted. You haven’t scored in years, so what’s another few hours? With me and her it’s different. She plays the field. When she kicks you the ball, you’d better kick it back or there’ll never be another shot your way.

Insulted, and with as much sarcasm he could muster, Ethan said, Well, now, that’s a match made in Heaven.

Nick ignored him. "I’m never going to get another job because of that, you know. ‘Oh, I see you were sacked from your last job!’ What will I say? That I banged the boss’s daughter behind a crate of toner cartridges or that my writing is shit? Neither is bound to land me a job, is it? I should be settling down, and instead I’ve gone and thrown everything away."

As Nick spoke, a rather significant thought crept into the forefront of Ethan’s mind. Before the words touched his lips, Nick stopped him.

I know what you’re thinking.

Ethan glared at him. Yeah, you’re damned right. How are you going to pay for your share of rent for this god-awful flat? I refuse to pay for this place on my own. You’re like my brother, Nick, but I’m not going to support you.

I know that, Nick replied with a scowl. He slunk off the kitchen counter and into a chair. That’s why I’ve decided… I’m moving out.

You what? Ethan gaped at his friend in disbelief, praying this was all just a ruse to pay him back for his recent gloating about a possible promotion. Like hell you are! You’re on the lease for another six months.

I can’t afford to live in London on what little savings I have. I’m moving back in with my folks in Southampton, at least until I can find another job here. You can find somebody to take my place. It’ll be easy. I’m sure it will. Nick stood again and snatched another beer from the refrigerator. He popped off the top using the corner of the counter, took a swig, and clutched it tightly to his chest, as though he were terrified that it too would be ripped away from him as effortlessly as his promising career had been.

"That’s your job to look for someone to take your place, Nick. Anyway, I’m not living with a stranger, Ethan spat. I’m too flaming old to go through that shit again." He shook his head in frustration. When it rains, it pours. He glowered at Nick’s beer, tempted to grab one of his own. If he could not resolve this problem sober, maybe he could wash it all away with some pilsner. You always have to fuck things up for everyone, don’t you?

Yeah, well, Nick said, taking another swig, "that’s me, right? Nick the Malcontent. Look, it was bound to happen one day, wasn’t it? They say everything’s eventual, right? One of us would ultimately meet a woman and move out or take a transfer in another city—hey, maybe you can find a fit university girl for a roomie."

Ethan growled and stabbed his fingers through his long locks of wavy curls. He would need to cut them soon; the waves at the sides were touching his ear lobes. When wet, those same locks extended to his jawline. He had noticed those at the back of his head beginning to settle into the space between the nape of his neck and the collar of his work shirt. Since ditching the uniform, he had felt less obligation to keep his hair short, and anyway, he felt more attractive with longer hair. His female coworkers seemed to like it better, so it must look all right. Now his hair was simply handy to grasp.

I don’t want to live with a girl from uni’, all right? he said. "I’m thirty-four; I don’t need some little… child nearly half my age and all her little friends running about. And, for God’s sake, having sleepovers."

"What the hell is wrong with that, my friend? You should be thankful you’re as handsome as you are. You could get any woman if you just put a little effort back into it. And there’s nothing wrong with a little fresh meat. Nick swallowed another gulp of beer and slammed the bottle down on the laminate counter. Droplets flew upwards from the mouth and the remaining drink began to froth over the lip and onto his hand. Bleeding Christ."

Hold it over the fuck—the damned sink, Ethan moaned, stopping himself before unleashing a slew of curses that he would inevitably regret. Unable to think straight and incapable of forming a rational point, he trudged to his bedroom, certain that if he spent another agonizing moment in that kitchen he might just attack his roommate. Today was not a day to tug on his already frayed nerves. It had been stressful enough with worrying that he might make a mistake that would cost him his promotion. He was sore from his fall down the staircase, and now, to top it all off, he had Nick’s lack of future rent checks to contend with. It was one thing when his childhood friend screwed up his own life but messing around with Ethan’s perfect balance? He had a big problem with that.

He needed to be alone, somewhere he could hide from his life.

Logically, he knew this was just a bump in the road, an insignificant event in the grand scheme of things, and within a few days, his life would be back in order. Nonetheless, current circumstances now required that he strategize his next few months, something, with his profession, he had never seemed to have time to do. There was always something more important to think about. He had always taken things in stride, one day at a time, only really caring for the current task at hand, which was usually an investigation. Any semblance of a personal life had been on the back burner for too long a time.

Where are you going? Nick called. Ethan could hear him slurping up the beer that had spilled onto his hand.

To my room, if that’s all right with you.

But the match is on in five minutes!

Ethan shook his head, feeling overwhelmed and defeated. I’ll watch it on my own, ta.

Nick scoffed at him. Whatever, mate. I’m packing tomorrow, so you know. I’ll be out by Wednesday; that’s month end.

Ethan felt his body pull a one-eighty, as though he were a dummy on strings, a marionette controlled by actions other than his own. With an invisible fist, this puppeteer pushed Ethan’s voice deeper into his throat so that his words came out in an uncharacteristic growl. "You mean you can’t even afford to stay one more fucking month? Not even while we put up an ad so I don’t have to pay for this place on my own? That’s another fifteen hundred pounds!"

Nick shrugged, irritatingly indifferent. I’m sorry, mate, I really can’t. Besides, even if I could, I already promised my mum I would be back in Southampton by Thursday so I can help my folks build that solarium.

Ethan felt as though he had swallowed a lit stick of dynamite. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Extinguish the flame. It would be in both of their best interests for him to not speak; he had learned from experience how his mouth could get him into trouble.

He strode through a thick gray fog into his bedroom and, with little effort required, slammed the door behind him.

From the hallway, he heard Nick shout, "All right, maybe I can sway my mum into lending me the rent for next month. That’ll hold you over at least. After that, you might just have to dig into that massive savings account of yours. You wanna die a rich loner?"

WHEN HE FIRST opened his eyes, it felt as though someone had been shaking him awake. His first thoughts were that Nick wanted to finish their fight and/or maybe there was a fire somewhere in the building. But he realized moments later that it was only the powerful vibrations of ear-splitting thunder that had woken him. He glanced out his window and found darkness, then looked at his alarm clock and failed to locate the LED display that normally shone an obnoxious hue of red.

No electricity.

As he gazed into the gloom beyond his bedroom window, the events of the day crawled back to his consciousness, each worry with an outstretched hand begging to be noticed. Gaining on him, they were like victims of an apocalyptic disaster on hands and knees, reaching for asylum so that they could endure, flourish. He knew better than to give them what they wanted ("keep feeding those mongrel cats and they’ll just keep coming back", his mother had said once) but found them impossible to ignore.

He pulled the cool duvet closer to his face and wondered what he had done in recent months to bring this all upon himself.

Nick’s moving out. It would happen eventually.

—everything’s eventual—

Everything’s changing.

His structured little world seemed to be crumbling, mortar joint by mortar joint, brick by brick.

You’re overreacting—

Another rumbling fit shook the building with such magnitude that his bedroom window rattled in its frame.

Building’s crumbling.

Ethan sighed and closed his eyes, allowing the sounds of the storm to sweep him away. Despite their typically foreboding nature, thunderstorms had always put him at ease, or at least had done so since that one day many years ago. He could only have been eight or nine. Some say he had the maturity of a sixteen-year-old by then, but mental and physical maturity sometimes differed in extreme.

As he had on most days, Ethan ensured that he left the school property in a hurry. Despite this, the bigger kids managed to catch up to him as he was rounding the last corner from home. Back then, he had been small for his age (he had made up for this, though, by the age of seventeen), and there had been five boys, all of whom were a good six inches taller. After surrounding him, ripping his backpack from his shoulders, tossing it aside, and pushing him to the ground, they beat him to a pulp.

Think you’re so much better than us, don’t you, Callaway? Rodney McCallum had shouted as he kicked Ethan in the guts.

Curled up like an armadillo and arms high in protection of his head, Ethan had shouted back, "Maybe if your dad weren’t such a dumbass getting himself pinched for stealing cars, you’d be half as brilliant as me!"

Watch your gob, you little twat! growled one of McCallum’s goons, a boy from a neighbouring school.

"Your old man’s gonna pay for putting my dad away, Callaway. I got people who can hurt him, you know, I know lots of dangerous grownups!"

Ethan endured a few more kicks. I’m just bricking it, he uttered sarcastically. Go back home to your gran. Maybe she’ll give you a big kiss and have you scrub the callouses off her heels.

A kick came to the right side of his head. Stars swarmed and a high-pitched ringing sound arose. Next a kick to his stomach. One came from behind and shot right up between his legs and into his genitals, driving all air and muscular power out of him, leaving voids for the agony to flood. The next foot landed in his face. Darkness blanketed him. Another in his ribcage. With a last-ditch effort, Ethan snatched the foot and hung on.

Where’s your gaffer, eh, Callaway? That big cop daddy of yours is as useless as a tit if he can’t even help his own kid a block from his house! McCallum laughed. He wrenched his foot from Ethan’s grasp.

Seconds later, the mother of one of the bullies slammed on the brakes of her diarrhea-brown Datsun as she passed and claimed her son, not offering a second glance to the small boy sprawled out on the sidewalk, schoolbooks and papers scattered around him. At the appearance of one authority figure, the remaining boys—including McCallum, who spit on Ethan before departing—split before other adults turned up.

During this beating of a boy who could not seem to keep his mouth shut when the time called for good sense, a storm had brewed up above.

He knew someone—God or whatever controlled their universe—was looking out for him when the storm let lose only once he had reached his front porch and turned the doorknob to safety. That late afternoon, Ethan sat at the front window wrapped in a blanket, sipping thick hot chocolate while his mother tended to his wounds. She offered advice that she trusted would help him cope in the soft voice of an angel. Ethan remembered he loved his mum very much that day. He had also developed a heightened respect for his dad, having to deal with adults a hundred times worse than young Roddy McCallum. It was this same day that Ethan’s eight- or nine-year-old counterpart vowed to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a police officer.

I’ll put those bullies in jail and any other bully that ever picks on me again, he recalled telling his mother as she picked a piece of gravel from his knee. "I’ll never let them hurt me ever, ever again."

From then on, he stood up to anyone that saw a problem with him. Though he was still kicked around much of the time for his polished self-respect, he learned how to read people, how to manipulate them, and how to stay on their good side. He had a lot to learn yet, but there would be time for that, or so he thought. When Ethan was just eighteen, his father, his idol, was killed in a high-speed pursuit on the A33, directly in front of the Southampton Football Club—just a block from where he had made his first-ever arrest as a twenty-four-year-old constable.

Once the torment of the irony and loss had dulled, Ethan’s desire to be like his role model grew stronger than ever; the scumbags had killed his dad, and he would make them and all others alike pay for their crimes. He would make his father proud.

Despite a volatile period thereafter, Ethan now, almost sixteen years after his dad had been stolen from them, worked in the Criminal Investigations Department of the London Metropolitan Police Service as a Detective Constable. He was so close to a promotion to Sergeant that he could taste it. Had his father been alive today, he would have told anyone who listened that on the day his son turned four, he had predicted Ethan would someday prove his merit in law enforcement, with no paternal assistance needed. Ethan’s years of being the smart kid in class, the loser, the geek, the grass, whatever schoolmates wanted to call him, were more valuable to him now than he ever could have envisioned. Though at times life had been tumultuous, he had never forgotten how to work hard.

A bolt of lightning illuminated the bedroom, throwing oddly fashioned shadows on the undecorated walls. He counted in his head the seconds before the thunder, yet still tensed when the heart-stopping reverberations jolted through him. Three seconds; the storm was almost right above them. He pulled the duvet over his head and tried not to think about the shit he would have to deal with in the upcoming weeks.

His only options were to find someone to share in the rent—man or woman, young or old—or find somewhere else to call home.

It was time.

He needed to invest his money in property. He could afford a sizeable down payment on a condo or house and had been able to since he was eighteen years old thanks to a trust fund his mother had set up with a portion of his late father’s investments, but he had always thought he would have found someone to share his life with by now. His plans had always been to marry first, buy a house with his wife, and then have children. It was not such an unrealistic goal. And down the road, when they outgrew their first house, they would upsize into a larger one.

He supposed life never worked out quite the way one intended.

From beneath the blanket, he was able to see when the ghostly red glow of the alarm clock reappeared. He lifted the duvet from his face, turned on the small night-table lamp, and grabbed his watch off the nightstand. 4:02AM. He groaned. Less than three hours before he had to face reality once more.

He reset the alarm clock and dropped his head back onto the pillow.

SATURATED IN A cold sweat, he opened his eyes, sat up in bed, and looked at the alarm clock. 1:42AM blinked off and on, that obnoxious glow mocking him. Thoughtless moments passed, and then his stomach dropped.

"Fuck!"

As he struggled to detangle his body from the blankets, adrenaline threatened to drown him. His lungs seemed unable to inflate. He snatched his watch. 8:20AM. He should be stepping onto the bus this very minute. Why, of all days, did he have to be late today?

He was ready to leave the apartment fifteen minutes later, having skipped some primary components of his morning routine like showering (again—he had been desperate to rid himself of the effluence of the old mansion and its lifeless occupant the previous evening), and completing only the ones that mattered most like brushing his teeth and hair. On his dash to the entryway, he tripped over Nick’s shoes and fell face-first into the front door. His left shoulder and cheekbone took the brunt of the fall, jarring the now tight and aching muscles in his back.

He reacted to the pain by kicking the shoes into the living room. "How many times do I have to tell you to put your fucking shoes away, eh?" he shouted.

Nick peeked over the back of the couch. Calm down, mate! Anyway, you won’t have to worry about my shoes much longer, now will you? What’s your big hurry?

Ethan jammed his feet into his own black Oxfords and tied the laces. The damned power went out and fucked my alarm, didn’t it? Why didn’t you wake me if you were already up? You know what bloody time I have to leave! I’m going to be late for my meeting.

Nick glanced up at the clock. Hey, what do you know? Wouldn’t it be a laugh if we both lost our jobs this week? We could move back home together! It would be like old times. Pub crawl every night.

Ethan glared at him, not in the least bit amused. He stood up tall to assert himself. "Don’t be a git. You—no, fuck it; I don’t have time to row."

He stormed out the door, slamming it behind him. The dank hallway reeked of stale marijuana, beer, and curry. Until now, this place had just been a place to sleep, but with the developing vision of investing in real estate in the back of his mind, he suddenly could not wait to be out of this hell-hole and wondered why he had settled here for so long. He punched the elevator down button and waited, then punched it again. He could hear the lift climbing its way up the cables to his floor. He glanced down to find that he was tapping his foot in impatience. He looked at his watch. 8:38AM. Twenty-two minutes to make it across eight and a half kilometres of London streets in rush-hour for a nine o’clock meeting. Sure.

Ding.

The doors slid open to reveal the familiar unstable elevator car. The cracked speckled mirror produced the reflection of an anxious man he scarcely recognized. He needed to compose himself and breathe. Breathe…

He stepped into the deserted lift, pressed G, and closed his eyes. He grabbed a few deep breaths on his way down to a world that did not care how shitty he felt or how dishevelled his bedhead looked. No one would give him a second glance. Neither would his co-workers. Everything would be fine. No one would notice that he was late. They wouldn’t.

But damn it! Why did it happen the day of his potential promotion?

Breathe.

Nick was moving out, abandoning him, but that was fine and dandy.

Breathe.

He would just find another flatmate or go out and buy a house. Everything would be fine. Just bloody brilliant.

2

Assuming Accountability

IT WAS ENOUGH that she had already missed her bus, but now she was crushing her own left arm on the filthy sidewalk,